


let's burn the past, forget the truth

by Trojie



Series: left me for dead [2]
Category: RocknRolla (2008), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Porn, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 08, Shower Sex, Unsafe Sex, unrequited Handsome Bob/One Two, unrequited or ambiguous Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3968623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You're still loving him, I'm still loving you</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's burn the past, forget the truth

**Author's Note:**

> Straight-up PWP. AU of S8 where Sam hits Bob on the road, not that dog, and the Amelia subplot never happened. Sequel to [cut loose like an animal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3063983). Title from Title from [Ten Tonne Skeleton by Royal Blood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eD7NZTQ3QxY)

Repressed bisexual and closeted gay look kind of the same from the outside but they taste so fucking different. Bob's never liked girls like that but he's fucked 'em for camouflage and because they asked for it and for a bit o' fun and because it's nice to get your dick wet however you do it. He lied about boys and girls, and had 'em both whenever he could or needed to.

Sam does like girls. No question there. Likes boys too, on the quiet. But he never got to fuck very many of the former or any of the latter, least til now.

Good at it, though, for someone who hasn't had much practice. Bob groans and widens his stance and lets Sam have the reins, lets the hot water of this latest disaster of a motel's shower cascade down his body and watches as six and a half feet of muscle drops to its knees for him. 

Hell of a fucking ego trip, that. Bob knows from dangerous men, see, and Sam Winchester just about takes the cake. Kinda boy you could take home to your mum and he'd probably call her 'ma'am', all at the same time as he's the kinda boy who shoots deadly things in the face for a living. And right now he's licking Bob's cock, tiny, delicate touches of his tongue to the skin, slow and sticky-nasty. Fuckin' tease. He's looking up through the water plastering his bangs to his face, and oh, he knows exactly what he's doing. 

'Oi, sweetheart,' Bob says, carding his hand down through Sam's hair and fisting it tight. 'You wanna maybe get on with it?'

There's blood in Sam's hair, and some kind of gunk Bob can't identify. Hence the shower, except it's easy to get distracted. 

'Nope,' says Sam easily. 

Bob pulls Sam's head back, liking the way he goes with it. There's a swath of red marks down Sam's back that'll be a galaxy of bruise tomorrow and must already hurt like a motherfucker. That's okay. Plenty of things to do that don't involve Sam on his back. 'Could make you,' Bob points out.

'You could,' Sam agrees. 'You gonna?'

'Gonna wash your fucking hair,' Bob says, petting him. 'Now are you gonna put your mouth back where it belongs, babe?'

Sam kisses him again, right where he's sensitive, under the head where that little bit of skin wrinkles and pinches, and then opens up like it's nothing and sucks Bob down. 

Jesus, he's good. Bob's eyes cross a little, his knees buckle. Sam's wet, sloppy, gorgeous mouth could bring any man to his knees, no shame in that. Throat open and eyes closed like this is bliss for him, Sam's nose is close enough to be huffing warm breaths against Bob's belly. 

Bob reaches, shakily, for the shampoo.

Sam killed a ghost today. Treated it like another day at the office - couple hours skulking around the library, looking up burial records, which Bob didn't even really know you could do, and then they went and dug a hole and lit a fire, and Sam acts like that's all they did. But that ghost came crawling out of the ground and was fixing to have a go at Bob, standing there gormless with a fucking shovel, not a gun, not that he's any damn good with a bloody shotgun, does he look like a bleedin' farmer?

And he was about to go down hard, he knows he was, but Sam was there, sliding in like silk, drawing the threat off Bob. That ghost hammered him, pounded him through the mud and sticks until the fire caught and it died screaming. 

And Sam just got up, and grinned, blood on his teeth.

Bob smooths shampoo through Sam's hair, scratches softly at his scalp to lather it up and because it makes Sam moan pleased little noises around Bob's cock. Bob likes making Sam moan, both cos it feels fucking amazing, vibrating, making him leak in Sam's mouth, and because he loves, fucking _loves_ , making this man feel good. 

Bob leans against the tile wall, one hand still in Sam's soapy hair, carding at the grit and dried-hard blood until it comes free. The other hand curls behind him to unhook the shower head.

'Keep your eyes closed, sweetheart,' Bob croons, and starts to rinse the suds from Sam's hair.

Sam pushes in closer, takes Bob deep, so deep, with a noise like he's tasting booze or chocolate or something else delicious, and Bob has to grit his teeth to keep from coming long enough to finish washing Sam's hair out, forces himself to concentrate on the water running over Sam's shoulders (fuck, those _shoulders_ ), washing him clean, and then he drops the shower head, fists Sam's hair and pulls him off. 'You're gonna make me come, babe,' he grits out, and Sam laughs. 

'Since when do you not want to come?'

Bob gropes behind him and shuts the water off. 'Since I have better places to do it,' he retorts. 'Get up. I want you arse-up in my fucking bed in the next thirty seconds, or I swear to fuckin' God I'll have you right here.' He grabs for Sam's face, but Sam pushes him back and is back up on his feet in one smooth move, up in Bob's space. 

'What about what I want?' he murmurs, kissing Bob hotly, biting at the swell of his bottom lip. 'Don't I get a vote?'

Bob slides a hand between them, cups Sam's hard, ready, dripping cock. 'Think you already did, gorgeous.' He shoves Sam back far enough to be able to grab a towel, and then bends him over far enough to be able to scrub his hair dry, groping at his arse as well and smug as fuck over being able to do it. Always liked bossing round big lads, and they don't come much bigger than Sam bloody Winchester. 

Sam wrestles the towel off him. 'I can dry myself, I'm not a goddamn puppy dog.'

Bob shrugs. 'Time's tickin', Winchester.'

'You better make this worth my while, then.'

The sight of him walking away would be enough to get Bob hard as fuckin' nails if he weren't already. The damp towel hitting him square in the face wakes him up, though. Burns a couple seconds frantically trying to get water off himself and then realises all he's doing is wasting time he could be fucking in. 

When he makes it through the bathroom door, Sam's flat on his belly on the bed, smiling like a wet dream. Bob's on him in half a second flat, and can you blame him?

He digs his fingers into Sam's knotted-up neck muscles first though, before going anywhere else. Straddling Sam's back, Bob ruts his cock into that gorgeous skin, loving how it smears, friction makin' him shiver all over, and tries his best to work the pain outta that body, skirting bruises as best as he can. 

The noises Sam makes when Bob gets a knot to let go are almost the same ones he makes when he comes, and that doesn't hurt either. 

'Thought we were fucking?' Sam groans into the pillow. Bob pushes his thumbs into the meat of the muscle either side of Sam's spine, and pulls down smooth and strong, like kneading bread. 

'We'll get to it,' says Bob. 'But you took a hell of a fuckin' pounding today, mate, and I wanna be sure you can get up in the morning.' He can feel Sam's body loosening up under him with every pass, though, and he wants to feel him open up in a different kinda way, so he starts working his way down. Sam's skin is smooth, damp and warm from the shower and starting to sweat again, a little slick from where Bob's been rubbin' off on him, and Bob pushes his hands over it all, kisses the sweet dips of his spine and the swell of his arse, and breathes.

Not too long ago, Bob did lines off here, crumbs of white sticking to the grain of Sam's skin, and he can't help the tiny stab of hunger, the way his breath sucks in, how his lips part - and Sam must feel it. 'Hey,' he says gently. Like he gets it. 

Bob knows Sam was a user. He can read it on him, _smell_ it on him. Takes one to know one. Doesn't know what his poison was, but hey, there's a lotta things Bob doesn't know about Sam. Plenty of things Sam doesn't know about Bob, too. They've both been good with that. Past's a whole 'nother country, border you don't wanna cross. 

But Sam knows this about Bob, and Bob ... Bob doesn't even know if he's allowed to ask.

'It used to be tomato sauce, with me,' Sam says. 'That set me off. Stupidest damn thing. Just … something about the look of it, I guess.'

'… the fuck were you hooked on?' asks Bob, squinting, jolted out of his tailspin a little, which was probably Sam's plan all along.

But he can't've thought it through, because the question makes Sam tense again, and then muscle by muscle he forces himself to relax, Bob watches him do it, fake calm washing over him like a tide. 'Bad shit,' he says. 'Paranormal PCP, pretty much.' He bites his lip, looks away, and Bob slides himself up to kiss that bite. 

'It's all bad shit, babe,' he murmurs. 'Don't I fuckin' know it.'

Sam mouths at the skin under Bob's jaw. 'Not right here,' he says, muffled. 'Not right now.'

'Trynna distract me?' Bob says, pinning Sam back down on his belly to stop him twisting himself up.

'You want to fuck or d'you want to talk?' Which is funny given Sam started the bloody talking in the first place.

_Talk_ says Bob's brain but Bob's mouth says 'Fuck,' and Sam pushes his arse up under Bob's body and curves to fit him. 

'Me too,' Sam growls. 'So c'mon.'

The head of Bob's cock nestles in the warm, perfect space between Sam's thighs and he thrusts once or twice, spreading slickness because he's leaking like a tap, and then he reaches down to smear it further up with his fingers, up to where Sam's tight-furled but so ready to open up. Bob knows. Been here before. 

Bob starts to push one fingertip in, just to test. They fucked this morning, in a different motel, and he knows whatever's left up there won't be enough but the fantasy's one that keeps coming back. He thinks maybe Sam'd be into it, too, daft bugger likes pain a little bit too much, like he's got a coupla wires crossed real good somewhere, but that's for another day. Right now he scrabbles for the drawer he stashed the lube in when they dumped their bags, knowing they were heading for the shower, knowing they were heading for _this_ , sooner or later.

Palm fulla slippery lube and Bob feeds it all into Sam's body, getting him sloppy-wet and wide around one-two-three-four fingers, width of his palm, flirts with edging his thumb in too but Sam's a sobbing, snarling mess and Bob knows what he wants. 

He cards his fingers into Sam's hair and pulls tight, reining him back, pulling his other hand free. 'Ready for me, sweetheart?'

'Born ready, goddammit,' Sam pants. 'Get the fuck in me now.'

It's a sweet, tight glide and Bob's bottomed out before he knows it, groaning into Sam's shoulderblades as Sam rears back and pushes him deeper, tight ropy muscles of his thighs taking the weight and bearing down. 

'Oh, fuck,' Sam breathes, a tiny shivering sound in the room that's suddenly so quiet Bob can hear the kick-drumming of their pulses. 'Oh fuck, fuck -' and he's screwing his hips side to side. Bob eases him down, sprawls him over the mattress again with his palms over Sam's spine, massaging until he melts like a cat in sunshine. 

'I gotcha,' Bob murmurs. 

'Don't you dare go easy on me.'

Bob isn't even gonna try. Bob knows Sam won't take it, not from him. Maybe woulda from Dean, but then again all Bob really knows about Dean is the name. He isn't sure if he buys the line about brothers, not the way Sam doesn't-talk about Dean, not the way Sam says that name in his sleep. But maybe Sam woulda taken comfort from _Dean_ , maybe woulda let himself be gentled all the way down out of his hurts, maybe woulda been the one doing the fucking occasionally, if Bob was Dean, but Bob isn't. 

So Bob plucks at Sam's hips til he gets the hint and shuffles 'em up. 'Never would, darling,' he says, and lets it all go, hell for leather. All the hunger and the need, the last knockings of craving for something he fuckin' promised himself he'd never taste again, all that goes into fucking, into giving Sam what he wants - getting fucked til he can forget. 

'Yes, fuck, there, right there, Jesus fuck, Bob, god, please, fucking _harder_ -' Sam groans word after word all disjointed into the pillow, running his mouth off with how much he wants it, and Bob knows if he just hits the right spot at the right angle, pulls that silk-sleek hair sharp enough, he can get Sam off untouched. His own orgasm's comin' for him, he can feel it start warm in his bones, ready to go. Raring to go. 

'You make me so fuckin' crazy,' Bob growls, yanking on Sam's hair, whole fistful of it, pad of his thumb pressed at the divot at the base of Sam's skull. 'God, babe, could fuck you for hours, wanna get a room with a decent bloody bed one'a these days and pound you through it.'

Sam makes a noise like porn and pulls hard against Bob's grip on him, hands clenching in the pillow, tendons knotted steel cables in those gorgeous hands. He's so close, Bob can read him like Braille.

'Gonna come for me, Sam? Gonna come for me, Sammy -'

Sam cries out higher-pitched than Bob's ever heard him before, bucking like a wild horse and practically levering them both off the bed, coming so hard Bob'd swear he sees it hit the wall, wracking Sam with aftershocks that wrench his body around. He paws at the mattress, Bob trying to keep a hold of himself long enough to get Sam stable before he blows his own load, but good fuckin' Christ Almighty. The second Sam's not about to tip them both off the fuckin' bed, Bob's got him by the hips again and _slams_ home, Sam tighter than ever with pleasure, and that's it, that's all it takes, when Sam's still making tiny, turned-on noises under him, still clenching and unclenching with the fireworks in his brain. 

Bob might black out at this point, he's not sure. All he remembers is the taste of blood in his mouth from biting the inside of his cheek, and the feel of his own come oozing between the two of them. 

Pulling out of that slick, hot space is one of the hardest things Bob's ever done and he's done more than you'd think. Managing to run the bathroom tap to wet a flannel is about as far as he's capable of going for cleanup, legs wobbling as he makes it out into the tiny, lino-tiled ensuite.

When he gets back into the bedroom, Sam's got that look on his face again, though. _That_ look. The Dean look. The I-don't-wanna-talk-about-it look, as if Bob was even gonna ask.

Bob ignores it, and starts to wash down the mess between Sam's thighs.

'Don't … don't call me Sammy, okay?' Sam says, after a moment that was prob'ly a lot longer and more awkward inside his own head. 

Bob folds the flannel in on itself to find a clean bit of cloth, and pushes Sam over onto his back, starts in on Sam's ridiculously cut belly, the come in all the little divots and spaces between muscles that he needs to clean up or Sam'll be itchin' and bitchin' by morning. 

'Okay,' he says, not meeting Sam's eyes. 'Sounded like it kinda worked for you, though.' Bob knows he's pushin' a line here. He knows. He just all of a sudden feels like he has a right to ask. He waits a little moment longer, to see if Sam's gonna say anything else, and then says, 'That what Dean used to call you, huh? When he fucked you?'

When Bob does look up, Sam's jaw is clenched. Anger. Okay. 'He's my brother,' Sam points out, flatly. 'We never -'

Never did is different to never wanted to, but Bob knows when enough is enough. 'Okay. Sorry. But it's what he used to call you, right? Sammy?'

Sam deflates. 'I hated it,' he says. 'Sammy was a kid, the chubby kid who sat in the backseat. I grew up, man. Not that he could see it.'

'And he kept calling you Sammy, din't he. No matter how much you told him not to. Right? Big brothers, man, they're all the same.' Bob doesn't have any big brothers but he watched Mumbles with his family enough. 

'I don't wanna talk about it,' Sam says, rolling over. 'C'mon. We've got a long drive ahead of us tomorrow.'

Bob chucks the flannel in the vague direction of the bathroom, own nether regions wiped off well enough to sleep, and gets the lights. He doesn't wanna _talk_ either. He's all set to just drift off, but when he slides in behind Sam, big spoon by default because Sam's turned away, hunched over, something makes him say, 'One Two used to call me Bobby-boy.'

'When he was fucking you?' Sam asks in his best bitchy voice. Fair dos - Bob hit a nerve, askin' the same thing. It stings though, thrown back at him like that. 

'Nah. Not One Two. Wasn't interested,' he says. 'But y'know. I get it.' And he does. Gets that it hurts. Two outta three's a fuckin' bitch. 

Sam doesn't say anything else. Not for a long while. Bob doesn't know how long because Sam's bulk blocks out the digital clock on his side of the bed, but long. Long enough for them to both start breathin' like they're sleeping. 

'Demon blood,' Sam says, though, in a low enough voice that if Bob'd been asleep, he wouldn'ta heard it. 'That's what I was hooked on.'

Bob doesn't even know what 'demon blood' is, but he's not stupid enough to think it's the street name for something pharmaceutical. He's also not stupid enough to ask.

'How long?' he says instead.

'On the wagon?' Sam asks. He chuckles bitterly. 'Two years. Give or take. There's some … timing issues … but I guess two years.'

'Cold turkey?'

Sam shudders under Bob's hands. 'Couple of times,' he says. 'Dean locked me up, let it get out of my system. Always ended up relapsing. There was always a good reason, y'know?'

There always is. Or at least, there's always a good _enough_ reason.

'Two years this time though,' Bob says gently. 'Musta stuck.'

Sam rolls over, and his eyes are wild in the gloom. 'I want it,' he confesses. 'Every … every frigging second. I've been refusing demon cases, making Garth make someone else take them. I just keep thinking, if I was strong enough, I'd be able to find Dean -'

'Doesn't make you stronger, though,' Bob says. 'Mate, you _know_ that.'

'Yeah, well,' Sam says, cryptically. 'Let's stick to ghosts just in case.'


End file.
